


burning concrete

by superpol



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, a little bit of homosexual slurs, aokaga exchange, beware of that just in case, this got out of hand, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:22:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3914482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superpol/pseuds/superpol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a fight, with a word, with Daiki drawing out blood. It starts and once the whole thing is in motion, Daiki can’t stop it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burning concrete

**Author's Note:**

> written for the aokaga tumblr exchange, this is a gift to [excedraexshadow](http://excedraexshadow.tumblr.com/). the prompt just got a little out of hand and it ended up being something completely different??? I AM SO SORRY.
> 
> happy aokaga day, guys!

  
  
  
  
  
  
Kagami is talking, full mouth moving slowly. Gentle words rolling off his tongue like a sweet murmur in the summer breeze. He's saying something about a game, something about school, something about his dad. He never really talks about his dad. He never really talks much about anything, to be honest. Silent and serious, a lonely boy in a big city. Wandering around like a stray cat.

His hair looks like fire under the Tokyo lights. His hair looks like fire and Daiki bites his lip, reaches out, curls his fingers behind Kagami's ears.

He kisses him ten minutes before midnight, a starless sky above them.  
  
  
  
  
  
It starts with a fight. To be more precise, it starts with Daiki getting into a fight. Bruised knuckles, and a black eye, and that temper of his he can't seem to control. There's a voice inside his head that sound like Satsuki's. A voice that says, _what are you doing_ as he lands another punch. A voice that says, _please, stop this_ as he takes a few himself. Satsuki's worried voice has always been a little annoying, so Daiki ignores it. Tunes it out. Kills it as he goes down gloriously on the concrete, a pile of long limbs and spilled blood.

It starts with his hands going for his phone, texting Tetsu instead of Satsuki because he's battered and bruised in a basketball court and he needs help, not pity. He types slowly, one eye swelling shut and fingers trembling. He types, _where are you_ and hits send, feeling the hot concrete burning through his clothes. He gets a short reply a few minutes later. _At the beach_ , it reads. Short, to the point. Very Tetsu-like.

Daiki snorts.

Of course.

The second text is more difficult to type than the first and he starts considering just lying there, waiting for his hands to stop shaking, for the world to stop spinning. For the pain to go away.

 _I kind of need help_.

He gets an address for his troubles. An address and a curt order to just _go there_. So he picks himself up, wincing a little. He picks himself up and walks, strolls, limps down the street. Blood drying under his nose. Metallic taste upon his tongue.

It’s a huge building, floor upon floor until the top grazes the sky. Glass and steel and concrete, an apparent air of sophistication and money.

He rings the bell and knocks on the door.

On the other side there’s Kagami Taiga.  
  
  
  
  
  
Years may have passed. Years and months and weeks. Days and hours, all gone. A thousand games, a thousand insults. A thousand losses. They are all well past Daiki, a burden left behind. And yet here he is, still behaving like a huge child. Still laughing at his teammates, still rolling his eyes at other people’s efforts. Still ignoring Satsuki when she means well.

He’s not _cured_. Wasn’t that what they wanted? For him to be cured? Cured of apathy, cured of boredom, cured of malice? It’s stupid. He can’t be cured because he isn’t ill. He isn’t sick. He just is. And so what if he feels lonely sometimes? And so what if he remembers that Winter Cup, that Seirin game, that scream that tore itself from his lungs?

So what?

He’s the way he is.

He’s the only one who can beat himself.  
  
  
  
  
  
("You look like shit."

"Shut up."

"Want to come in?"

There's leftover pizza in the fridge, a basketball game on TV and a blank look on Kagami's face. Daiki just shrugs and rolls with the punches.)  
  
  
  
  
  
He cleans the wounds, he washes the blood off, he ices his knuckles.

He looks at himself in the mirror, blue eyes tired and bored. Mouth scowling. Nose swollen. He looks at himself and a word comes to mind. A word that hurts more than the bruises and the cuts.

A word he shouldn’t even care about.

He fights back the urge to smash the glass.  
  
  
  
  
  
His inbox is full of texts. Tetsu writes, and Kise rants, and Midorima informs. Akashi just orders. A little nicer now, a little gentler. But no matter how nicely put, orders are orders, and Daiki won’t be fooled. He doesn’t follow them the same way he doesn’t follow Midorima’s horoscope recommendations. Or doesn’t answer Kise’s questions. Or doesn’t pay attention to Tetsu’s polite complaints about his behaviour.

He doesn’t bother texting much. Or calling. Or sending emails. It’s a pain in the ass and he’s just fine by himself.

He’s fine. He’s just—  
  
  
  
  
  
("Hey, if you're in trouble again," Kagami says, hands buried inside his sweatpants, "you can, you know, call."

Daiki looks at his basketball shoes, the weight of bright eyes pulling him down. The weight of a phone number tearing a hole in his palm.

"Yeah, whatever.")  
  
  
  
  
  
Okay, so maybe he’s a little bit broken. He’s a little bit broken, like those toys kids play way too much with and lose an arm, a leg, a couple of fingers. He’s a little bit broken, like a chipped mug. Like fine china no one has bothered to keep out of harm’s way.

He’s a little bit broken and yes, a little bit mean. A little bit childish. So he calls. He calls that fucking number. He calls and he’s not really in trouble, he doesn’t really need help. He just wants to nag, wants to look for a game, a screaming contest, a fight. So he calls and texts and leaves messages like a spoiled brat who won’t be ignored.

And one thing Daiki won’t ever be is ignored. 

To his surprise, to his amusement, Kagami comes. Kagami comes, annoyed and grumpy and snarling. Kagami comes, throws him a ball and gives him a run for his money.

Daiki can’t fucking believe it.  
  
  
  
  
  
(He’s broken, he’s mean, he’s childish. He wants to take it all out on Kagami. Wants to take all those chinks in his armor and wear him down. Wants to find the point of no return, the limit, the moment Kagami will say _stop_. Will say, _you're not fucking worth my time_. Will say, _get lost, you loser_.

But to Daiki’s disappointment, Kagami Taiga is made of something far stronger than steel.)  
  
  
  
  
  
It starts with a fight, with a word, with Daiki drawing out blood. It starts and once the whole thing is in motion, Daiki can’t stop it.  
  
  
  
  
  
They text each other, they play, they eat, they wander around.

Sometimes, they talk. They talk about all those things they don't really feel like talking about because what they do want to say is very personal, very intimate. A confession. Things someone would say to a friend, things someone would say to a person they trust.

They aren't friends and they don't really trust each other, so they talk about nonsense instead.

Kagami doesn't ask about the fight or the fact that Daiki walks the streets alone. He doesn't ask about his past at Teiko or about his relationship with Tetsu. He doesn't ask personal questions beyond _are you hungry_ and _do you like udon_. He's very serious and very silent when nobody's looking, and that's not at all how Daiki pictured him to be.

It's kind of nice, in a way.

Except—

Except for all the questions on the tip of Daiki's tongue. Except for that need to ask Kagami who that pretty, redheaded woman in the picture is, the one placed in the living room. The one that always has an incense stick burning slowly in front of the frame. He wants to ask why he left California, if his dad calls, if he does anything else apart from being alone and entertaining Daiki.

Kagami is silent and serious and Daiki guesses he's also sad.

It rings a bell, to be honest.  
  
  
  
  
  
He finds the surfboard in a closet. He goes through the expensive clothes in the drawers. He inspects the food stored inside the fridge. He tries the bed.

Kagami just steps outside to the balcony, the sunset a distant glow. Powerful forearms leaning on the rail, hair like a red halo. Like spilt blood.

Daiki finds himself staring more often than not and quickly looks away every time.  
  
  
  
  
  
The city looks really pretty from up here. From temples and pillars and shadowy trees. It looks pretty, painted pink, orange, red. Cicadas buzzing, breeze blowing.

“Dai-chan, are you listening to me?”

Satsuki has a worried look, like always. Worried huge eyes, lips in a pout, hair pulled back from her face, from the heat, from the sweat.

Daiki lies back down, the grass tickling his ears.

“Not really,” he says, looking at bright skies.

Satsuki huffs, puffs, sighs. She passes him a cold can from her bag, grabs one for herself. Her shorts are too short, her t-shirt is too tight, her sandals are too pink. A couple of guys are leering at her from the stairs leading to the temple. Disgusting, leering pieces of shit. Daiki sneers, thinking about getting into another fight, thinking about going to tall buildings and good cooking and long fingers.

“You’ve been really distracted lately,” Satsuki says.

One of those stupid assholes whistles at her.

No loser whistles at Satsuki without getting Daiki’s fist in their teeth.

“Maybe,” he says as he stands up.

(He half wishes he gets a bloody nose just to see the worried look on crimson eyes).  
  
  
  
  
  
There's something beautiful in the way Kagami cradles the ball to his hip. In the way his long fingers curl around the smooth surface, too worn and jaded to be of use anymore. A well-loved ball in callused hands.

There's also something beautiful in the way he plays. Fiercely. Recklessly. Fire burning behind his eyes even when he loses, even when everything seems lost. All pure heart and good intentions, looking for a challenge around every corner. Never giving up.

Never.

And Daiki feels his blood heat up. Feels his head go light, breath caught in his lungs. Kagami is so alive, so determined to win, to get what he wants. To get what his team wants and—

And Daiki buries the thought deep, deep down. Deep with hope and happiness. Deep where nobody will ever find it because he can't afford this. He can't afford to think like this, to think that Kagami is not only Tetsu's new light. That Kagami is a force of nature that just breaks in, that keeps on going. That cares nothing about fate and possibilities and odds, making its own future.

Daiki can’t afford to think that Kagami Taiga is beautiful.  
  
  
  
  
  
A word. A word a word a word ringing in his ears. Such a stupid word. A word he shouldn’t pay attention to the same way he doesn’t pay attention to Tetsu’s texts, to Satsuki’s worries, to Akashi’s orders.

A fucking _word_.

A fucking word that haunts him like a ghost, whispering in his ear.  
  
  
  
  
  
He starts crashing at Kagami's one day. He invites himself in, he makes a place for himself in the apartment. He pushes and pushes and pushes, trying out Kagami's limits. Yearning to see what gets on his nerves, what makes him sweat in anger. Tetsu would call it childish, Satsuki would call it mean.

Kagami just rolls his eyes.

And it's infuriating. It's infuriating because he gets a few yells, a few sighs, a few frowns, but Kagami never kicks him out. He never tells him to go. He just grunts and smacks him and then makes him food. Lets him stay like he’s a pet. Puts a hand on his shoulder after a good one-on-one and promises Daiki to beat him next time.

And Daiki can't stand it. He can't. Because he can’t help the way his heart pounds faster at imagining that there will be a next time.  
  
  
  
  
  
("You stupid _faggot_ ," the guy had said.

Daiki brought his fist back before bringing it forwards, and suddenly—

The crack of broken cartilage.)  
  
  
  
  
  
He isn’t.

He likes big tits, and short skirts, and cute faces. He likes sweet perfume, and soft laughs, and tiny hands. Make-up, pouty lips, a pretty blush. He likes girls, he likes women. He doesn’t like strong shoulders and callused hands. Doesn’t like tall and broad and husky. He doesn’t.

He _isn’t_ —  
  
  
  
  
  
Kagami laughs like a child, and eats like a beast, and plays like an angel.

He only gets a few calls for his birthday and none are from his dad, but he doesn't mind. He says, _he's busy_. He says, _he'll write_. Says, _he always does_. He bakes his own cake and shares it with Daiki, watching a basketball game on TV, bodies pressed closer than necessary on the couch.

Daiki is slowly losing the fight.  
  
  
  
  
  
That night he gets out of bed and walks down the corridor to Kagami's room. The cicadas sing outside like a pack of wolves howling to the moon, loud and unyielding. They sing and the floorboards under Daiki's toes creak and his heart beats like a drum.

There's a teddy bear on Kagami's windowsill, another question never asked. Another anecdote never told.

Daiki hesitates for a second before climbing into bed, the space cramped and hot. He holds his breath, his back to Kagami's.

There's a pause, a clock ticking. And then:

“Aomine, what—”

But it's dark and Daiki feels daring, so he buries his head on the pillow and mutters to the room, “Don't ask.”

He doesn't say please.

Kagami sighs, gets comfortable against his back. They fall asleep to the cicadas, and the Tokyo lights, and the now agreed rule of not asking and not telling.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Can you really surf?”

Kagami drops the shoe he was eyeing and tilts his head to the side. Daiki busies himself with Nike’s latest model.

“Yeah,” the boy answers.

Daiki licks his lips.

“What’s it like?”

Kagami’s eyes soften, a hidden smile in the corner of his lips. He sighs, long fingers tracing the design on a very expensive pair of basketball shoes.

When he looks at Daiki, the world seems to disappear.

“Peaceful.”

That night, Daiki lies on his own bed and wonders what it’d feel like to soar the ocean with long fingers wrapped around his wrist.  
  
  
  
  
  
(He starts crawling into Kagami's bed every night he stays over.

He always wakes up with his forehead against warm shoulders and his arms around a wide chest.)  
  
  
  
  
  
His mom looks at him with a smile on her face. Daiki doesn’t meet her eye, playing dumb. She has this mischievous glint in her eye, like she knows something Daiki doesn’t. Like the looks Satsuki gives him during practice, during lunch, during all those conversations about Seirin.

“You seem,” she starts, dark skin contrasting beautifully with her white summer dress, “happy.”

Daiki scowls because he’s expected to.

“Am _not_ ”.

His mother shrugs, raises an eyebrow, snorts.

She has this grace when she walks, a feline trait Daiki thinks he has inherited, at least partly. Yet it looks better on her, lean limbs and shiny hair and ever-laughing eyes. She drops next to Daiki on their small couch, her arm on the backrest. Lips on a smirk.

“You can’t fool me, _Dai-chan_.”

Daiki shudders, looking at his mom with a horrified look.

“Urgh, mom, don’t.”

She gives him a feral grin he knows resembles his.

“Such a whiny baby,” she laughs, ruffling Daiki’s hair far too roughly.

She leaves him be, walking away. Not saying a word about Daiki spending most of his nights out. About him playing basketball until he can’t feel his legs. About him falling asleep next to another boy, chasing the heat in the middle of summer.  
  
  
  
  
  
A few nights after that, he breaks his own rule.

He turns around in Kagami’s bed, reaches out and curls his fingers around a narrow waist. The body stirs, stiffens, turns. Kagami’s eyes are soft, sleepy, but his mouth seems fuller. A little swollen, a little scared. He’s closer to Daiki like this, sharing the same space, the same voice, the same air.

“That woman in the picture,” Daiki whispers, “Is she your mom?”

Kagami blinks, looks at the dark corner of the room. Rolls onto his back, air leaving him in a small sigh. Daiki inches closer, his chest against a wide shoulder. They stay like that for a few minutes and then—

“Was,” Kagami says, his voice a murmur. “Yeah.”

Daiki nods, suddenly interested in the way Kagami’s hair curls behind his ears.

“Why do you put up with me?”

His voice seems small when he asks that. Small, tiny, ethereal. And he’s not. Not tiny, or small, or ethereal. He’s a wild animal, rude and uncaring and reckless. He has made himself that way, he has polished every detail after Teiko, after bitter disappointment, after the hopelessness.

And now—

And now.

Kagami turns his head to him. He has such bright eyes, so expressive. He’s silent, and serious, and sad, and Daiki can’t help but to feel the pull like a magnet.

“Not sure,” Kagami says, and his voice is just as tiny as Daiki’s. “I just do.”

Daiki falls asleep with his face in Kagami’s neck, bodies way too hot in the summer.

Outside, the cicadas sing promises to the moon.  
  
  
  
  
  
The word, that’s not Daiki’s enemy. The word is just a word, and the important thing is what he ends up doing with it.

He’s his own enemy. And the word, well.

The word can go fuck itself.  
  
  
  
  
  
Kagami is talking. He's saying something about a game, something about school, something about his dad.

His hair looks like fire under the Tokyo lights. 

His hair looks like fire and Daiki kisses him. Hands pushing him to the dark corner of the court, fingers curling around wire, ball bouncing on the concrete. He kisses him until their lips hurt. Kisses him until he can’t breathe.

Kisses him once, twice, thrice. Lips tight and bruising.

The best is—Kagami kisses back.  
  
  
  
  
  
( _Faggot_.

Yes. Yes, a faggot. So what?

He doesn’t mind being one.

He doesn’t mind being one when it feels as glorious as this.)  
  
  
  
  
  
It happens everywhere. Everywhere, because they can’t help it. Can’t help themselves.

They push each other to the side, to dark corners and empty spaces. One minute they are playing and the next they are kissing. One moment they are shopping, the next they are hiding in an alley. Fingers curled in hair, lips red and swollen, tongues tangled.

They can’t help themselves and when his mom gives him a knowing look, Daiki doesn’t even care.  
  
  
  
  
  
He was ten.

He was ten and running, jumping, ducking. He was ten, and the ball was too big in his hands, and the players were merciless giants. He was ten and Satsuki was cheering and he was winning, winning, winning. He was ten, a happy smile on his face, the basket right in front of him and _ready, aim, fire_.

Now he’s seventeen and he’s winning, but not really _winning_. He’s seventeen and wandering the streets. He’s seventeen and there’s a hand in his hand, mouth against his ear, a nose against his cheek. 

Now he’s seventeen and there’s a boy in the queue to rent a movie for the both of them. There’s a boy humming under his breath. There’s a boy. Daiki is seventeen.

 _Ready, aim, fire_.  
  
  
  
  
  
They text each other, they play, they eat, they wander around.

Sometimes, they talk.

Most nights they sleep next to each other like two huge cats. Ignoring the heat, the cicadas, the Tokyo lights. Ignoring Daiki’s word, ignoring the insult behind it because there’s no real insult if he doesn’t take it as one, right? There’s nothing wrong with kissing, or touching, or sharing a bed with a boy.

Daiki doesn’t feel wrong.

He feels just fine.  
  
  
  
  
  
He turns eighteen by the end of August.

He turns eighteen and Kagami breathes against him. Brings him closer, thumbs catching on Daiki's hips. They kiss quickly, a hint of tongue. Gasping into each other's mouths. They collide like they always do. Hot and messy and desperate. Kagami's tongue in his mouth, tracing the line of his teeth. Daiki's hands slipping over his shoulders, his back, his waist. Reaching under his clothes just to feel warm, smooth skin, like the one on Kagami's favorite basketball. Soft and well-loved.

They kiss in the genkan, the world locked out. They kiss in the living room, moonlight filtering through open windows. They fall onto the couch and kiss some more, their bodies fitting just right. Breathing each other's air, mapping each other's jaws with their tongues. Kagami moving between his legs, kneeling on the floor, long fingers spreading his legs. Voice rough, lips red. Saying, _can I_. Saying, _I want to_. Saying, _Aomine_.

And Daiki nods, exhales, finds Kagami's hair and knots his fingers in it. His shorts around his ankles and his right thigh on Kagami's shoulder.

He turns eighteen and Kagami blows his mind to kingdom come.  
  
  
  
  
  
The end of summer comes with rain and thunder. Comes with a text from Tetsu, saying he’s back. Comes with a dark apartment during the storm, Kagami gasping in his ear, in his mouth, in his mind. Gasping, moaning, panting. Daiki’s name whispered into the dark, into his own skin. Long fingers catching on his hips.

The end of summer comes, both of them of age. Both of them about to play their last high school basketball games. Both of them older, but not old enough yet.

The end of summer comes and during a quick dinner, Kagami says, "You’re staying, right?"

(They still talk less than they should. They still sleep curled around one another. They still kiss everywhere, and touch everywhere, and sweat all over Kagami’s sheets. Daiki is still a little scared of _the word_ , flinching a little every time he hears it. But he’s trying not to think about it. After all, the touch of sunburnt skin and calloused hands is better than the feeling of glossy idol magazines. The taste of rough kisses better than unrealistic bodies and fake smiles. The look of wide grins and dorky laughs better than—well, than anything.

They still play, bodies dancing to a tune only they can hear. They still banter and fight and laugh. They will always banter and fight and laugh because that’s who they are.

The only ones who can beat them are themselves and that makes Daiki’s heart pound harder.

So the end of summer comes, but it’s not the end of this thing they’ve got.)

“Yeah, I’m staying,” Daiki says.

Kagami’s smile is warmer than the summer heat, anyway.  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> so the prompt i chose was "aomine and kagami sleeping together". i kind of interpreted as the two of them sharing a bed, so... yeah. I AM SORRY, REALLY. also the teenage angst just showed up.
> 
> /sighs


End file.
